


Distinctions

by Luna (lunasky)



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Genderswap, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:24:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunasky/pseuds/Luna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night. Day. Sleep. Awake. Brad stopped caring about the distinctions sixteen days ago when in a moment of unparalleled irony; he dreamed he was awake in Iraq trying desperately to fall asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distinctions

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: girl!Brad Colbert /girl!Nate Fick, tease. Many, many thanks to Shoshanna Gold for her awesome beta.

Night. Day. Sleep. Awake. Brad stopped caring about the distinctions sixteen days ago when in a moment of unparalleled irony; he dreamed he was awake in Iraq trying desperately to fall asleep.

That dream comes back to him again and again, souring the precious few minutes set aside for his slumber. And when he's not dreaming about not being able to sleep, he's dreaming about his platoon commander, which makes sleep even more difficult for all the problems that it holds.

0300 hours. Over the scope of his rifle, he looks out in the distance. Bravo-Two is pulled off to the side of a road, waiting for orders. They've been waiting for thirty minutes. Encino Man is under the mistaken impression that Godfather is going to give them orders sometime soon. Brad knows better. Godfather's fucking asleep right now.

"All victors, this is Hitman-Two-Actual. Disengage engines to conserve fuel. It doesn't look like we'll be moving for a little while. Over."

Brad rolls his eyes as Ray turns the engine off. Even Ray is too tired for his usual banter because he rests his helmet against the steering wheel. Thirty seconds later, Brad hears a distinctive snore.

Brad forces himself to stay awake and not think about his platoon commander. Settling into his seat, scanning the horizon from right to left, Brad does his fucking job. He does it because it sucks, because Ray needs his sleep more than any of them because if Ray drives off a fucking bridge, the whole battalion will probably follow right behind him, but also because it relieves him from thinking too much about Fick's voice which is always right there in his fucking head, even when they're off comms.

Brad doesn't know what the the fuck is wrong with him. He respects the fuck out of Fick. Fick is the only sane member of command in this clusterfuck of a war and he gets why he likes hanging out with him. He's intelligent, witty, and honorable which is two up on any of the other fucknuts Brad tends to hang out with, even if he loves them all like brothers.

But he knows his friendship with Fick walks a fine line—officers and enlisted men don't hang out over beer and nacho chips. Still, if there's one small benefit to the gentry riding up their asses in this war, it's that Fick also needs someone to talk to who isn't fucking retarded.

This section of road is quiet. Even the fucking Republican Guard is sleeping tonight. Sleeping or already dead, Brad thinks with a shrug. Behind him, Walt shifts around, probably trying to find some way to sleep standing up.

Someone from Poke's vehicle starts singing a lullaby and someone further down the line shouts to shut the fuck up. So much for noise discipline. But then, it isn't like every Hajji and his brother in a ten-mile radius doesn't know exactly where they are anyway.

There's a tree off in the distance that looks inviting. It reminds Brad of his grandparent's ranch—aside from all the sand, of course. But in the moonlight, the sand could be long grass, and Brad wouldn't be able to tell without wasting his NVG's batteries. This tree, Brad imagines, would be comfortable to lean up against while shooting the shit with Fick. Then the idea of Ray trying to climb the tree to get a football out of the branches interrupts them, and Brad can't help but feel a twinge of resentment. Damn Fick for spoiling him for all his other friends.

But Ray leaves soon, off to tackle Walt and Trombley. Even Reporter is getting in on the game; following Ray around with his pad and pencil, scribbling down Ray's inane ramblings.

Nate intercepts a stray high throw, and Brad does what should be done and tackles him to the ground. It's still a touchdown of sorts. Rudy hoists Fick up on his shoulders, carrying him away. The sudden loss of Fick's companionship makes something ache in Brad's chest and startles him awake.

"The fuck?" Brad says to himself as he gets out of the Humvee and walks toward the tree. The moonlight must be playing tricks on him because Fick is there gesturing for him to come over with an enthusiastic wave of his hand.

"Come on, Brad," Fick says with a smile. Brad jogs over.

The moonlight is brighter over here, illuminating Fick's face. There's something infectious in his smile, because suddenly, Brad is smiling back.

He raises his eyebrow in question and Fick's eyes travel down Brad's face and rest on his lips. "I think you know what I want, Brad."

Brad's eyes are focused on Fick's lips, on the sweet curve of smile that he hardly ever gets to see. There's something a little different—something Brad can't quite put his fingers on. Then the LT tilts his head.

"I want to kiss you," Fick says.

Brad stomach drops and his heart clenches—a million things rush through his head at once and he's fucked because he can't sort any of them out. Heat rushes to his face, and all he can do is stare at Fick and think, _hell, yes_.

"I can't—" The words force themselves out of Brad's mouth, past the _Yeses_, and _Pleases_ and pool somewhere in the sand.

Fick gives him that smile again. "Sure you can."

All of a sudden, it occurs to Brad, what's different. Fick's lips are a little fuller, his cheek bones a little higher, his voice not quite as deep. "You're a girl," he says with a whoosh of relief, as he sinks in closer, and wraps Fick up in his arms. And there's no doubt about it. Fick fits too well against him, pushed up against the tree. Fick—no. Last names are too formal for what he suddenly wants to do. Nate, maybe? Nate is soft and strong and smells like wood and gun oil. But it's sexy as hell because somehow, this is still Nate.

Brad tilts Nate's face up and bends over, bringing his lips down to meet hers—melts into Nate so completely, every pore of his body screaming that this is what he's wanted for so long. Brad has no idea why they never kissed before.

"Please." The rest of the words start catching up and suddenly they're all rushing out his mouth. "Please, Nate," Brad's begging, and Nate's still laughing as they tumble into the grass.

"What took you so long?" Nate asks, as Brad pins Nate down, kissing along her body, cupping the breasts he can feel under the cammies.

"I don't know," Brad says, unbuttoning Nate's shirt, reveling a white bra underneath. Her skin is glorious and soft. It feels like coming home in the most perfect sense of the word. There's comfort here, and safety. Trust and desire. "It's really okay?"

"You tell me."

Brad traces the length of Nate's body with hand, feels the sensual dip in her waist and the rise of her hips. There's something odd, but it's reassuring as well. "You're a woman?"

Nate gives him a quizzical look. "Yes, and so are you. Does that make it any less okay?"

Nate's response doesn't make any sense, doesn't compute until Brad glances down at his own chest and sees the distinct shape of breasts.

Which is odd, because he doesn't remember being a woman. The thought almost derails him, almost makes him panic until Nate takes his hand and guides it between her legs. And the soft warmth there collapses whatever willpower might have been scrounging around.

"It doesn't matter," Brad says undoing the button and fly of Nate's pants. He'll deal with the gender confusion later. "We are who we are and I am still going to fuck you."

"Fuck, yes," Nate replies when Brad slips his fingers under her panties to touch her sweet flesh.

"I want to taste you, I want to touch inside you—" Brad begs and Nate shimmies her hips, letting him open her up. She's so wet and inviting, he slides two fingers inside.

Everything coalesces into the tight warmth around his fingers. Nate's gripping his neck, pulling him closer, working her hands desperately under Brad's clothes, like she's trying to find purchase.

And suddenly Brad wants to help her. There's this ache he's feeling now that's like nothing he's ever experienced. He feels empty and a need for pressure, an undeniable need for something to be inside him.

Nate unbuttons his pants, and reaches in, around the underwear to where Brad's need is the worst. She rubs her fingers on something that sends pulses of pleasure all the way up his spine, her other hand cupping his breast and Brad thinks that if being a woman feels like this, women have it made.

He slides his fingers in and out of Nate, watches the build of pleasure across her face, and uses his thumb on Nate's clit to slowly drive her over the edge. Nate's eyes clench shut as she calls out his name, riding his fingers as best she can and in that one instant Brad wishes he had his dick. Because he wants to be inside her, wants to crawl into her skin and mark her as his, just as Nate is working her fingers inside him, pounding him like she wants to do the same.

A wave of pleasure overtakes him, slamming into him like an unexpected tidal wave, carrying him away until there's not a drop of tension left in his body at all. Lying there together, with Nate curled up beside him, feeling boneless and ethereal, Brad eventually removes his hand from Nate's pants and finds her fingers and entangles them together with his.

If this is making do, Brad wonders, he'll take it any fucking way he can.

~~~

There's a cough behind him, and Brad jumps up, fumbling for clothes and dignity but Poke doesn't seem to notice. "You were dreaming, dawg."

Brad glances around and sees that it's just the two of them, Nate is nowhere in sight. He's still naked though, so he throws some clothes on and collapses against the tree, exhausted. "That was fucked up. I dreamed I was a woman,"

Poke nods as if pondering some great revelation. "Women are powerful creatures. You know, if were fighting the women here, we'd be toast. We—we claim we make do. Women make do every fucking day of their lives, and they didn't have to turn it into a moto bullshit phrase either. Women are fierce, dawg. We should heed the wisdom they have to say."

"Your wife teach you all this?" Brad asks as he picks up his weapon which for some reason is lying in the grass.

"My wife is a smart woman, despite the fact that she married me. But if you'd like to pontificate about my respect and awe for women to her, that'd be okay too."

Brad shakes his head as Poke wanders off, thinking that Poke's a smart man, and knows how to tow the party line in order to secure his own nookie. A voice in the back of his head hints that maybe Poke's a smart man about many things and Brad concedes that that too may be true. The odd thing is the voice sounds an awful lot like Fick's.

~~~

Someone is shaking his shoulder, and Nate's voice is calling for him in his ear. Brad knows he's truly awake now, because his eyes sting when he opens them.

"Hey Brad," Nate's standing outside his window, his hand on Brad's arm that's still holding his rifle. "Your whole victor's asleep. I tried calling you on comms, but nobody responded."

Brad looks to his side, and sure enough, Ray is still snoring—head leaning against the steering wheel. A glance behind him shows Trombley with drool pooling from his lower lip and Reporter leaning against him, fast asleep. Walt's using one leg to scratch the other, blithely unaware that the people underneath him are completely out.

"Sorry, sir," Brad says, chagrined. It was fucking stupid of him to fall asleep and he should fucking know better—

Nate shakes his head. "I'm sorry I had to wake you. We're camping here for the night. I've been told to get you guys to dig in, but fuck it. We're on twenty-five percent watch. Whoever's up now can dig their graves before passing out. The rest can sleep where they've fallen."

Nate's just about to leave when he turns back to Brad. "Were you dreaming of anything good?"

The softness of Nate's lips flashes through his mind, piercing something deep inside him. There's a message somewhere in that fucking dream. He's sure of it. But Brad doesn't do metaphors or other bullshit like that. All he wants to do is reach out and close the two inches that separate their arms.

"I was dreaming we were getting some girl-on-girl action over there by that tree," Brad says, shocked at the words as they come out of his mouth, thankful that they're only a fraction of the truth.

But Nate laughs and so it's worth it, even if he does so while rubbing his eyes. "I think I'm too tired to even think about enjoying that. The tree looks like a nice place to have a nap though."

"I saw it first, sir," Brad says with a smile.

"Yes, but rank has its privileges," Nate responds.

Brad nods in acknowledgment, but Nate grins at him. "I'll save a spot for you, though?"

"I'd like that, sir. I'd like that a lot."

As he watches Nate leave, parts of the dream loop over in Brad's head.

_Maybe I'm gay_, Brad thinks with a shock. Even with all the homoerotic bullshit they spout each and every day, this is the first time the thought actually occurs to him. But the label makes his skin itch. He doesn't want to be a poster boy for a cause; he doesn't want to wear pink or vote Democrat. Nothing about him has changed; he still is who he is.

Later that night, when Brad's in his grave, staring up at the nighttime sky, unable to sleep yet again, it occurs to him that maybe, like day and night, and sleep and awake, being gay or straight is just another distinction he has no use for. And maybe Nate won't, either.


End file.
